


Recalibrating

by tekowrites



Category: Tokyo Babylon, X -エックス- | X/1999
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6948289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekowrites/pseuds/tekowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Subaru becomes an independent adult, he makes his own choices and runs his own household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recalibrating

Everyone had survival skills, and for Subaru, these centered mostly on the job. Sorry, no. _Entirely_ on the job, and even then he came back with the bumps and bruises to show for it.

So, when he was finally deemed fit to live on his own, without the clan’s eyes tracking his every exhalation of breath, he boils water, and makes tea. It’s lucky the floor doesn’t absorb the raging water when it spills, less lucky when the jar of flaky tealeaves is knocked off the counter via an awkward elbow, and submerge themselves in the mess. He has a moment of wonder on whether it might actually be drinkable, but dismisses the thought.

He looks at the savings book, with the neat script detailing his net worth, and buys an electronic kettle.

The convenience store a few blocks away becomes a regular stop. There are boxes of tea in tea bags instead, and a mutiny of the old ways assaults him, he recalls how useful it turned out to be in the end to wear gloves, and he picks the yellow box off the shelves and shoves it, gently though, into his basket.

He’s never stocked a place before, and feeling blooms in his chest as he reaches excitedly, though obviously with decorum befitting the head of the Sumeragi clan, for a colorful toothbrush. Bubblegum toothpaste, chocolate deodorant, toilet paper with a penguin print on the plastic. Tissue boxes with animal prints, band aids, a shampoo that smells like something… something that only vaguely hangs in the peripheral point of his memory. Soap, he bypasses the gloves with hardly a glance as he makes his way to the open fridges and contemplates the array of bento boxes.

There’s no methodology in the act of picking what to eat, though he’s conscious of looking at the prices and determining a range. There are definitely expenses that he cannot warrant indulging in. He thinks fondly, with passive annoyance on his daily purchase limit breach, when he’d tried to buy the rice-cooker. He’d obviously forgotten the clan was monitoring and handling his finances. Though what they thought he was paying that amount of money for, he doesn’t want to analyze that deeply. The blush creeps up his neck anyway.

His first adult-world lesson had become saving cash, within the daily limit, and setting it aside in a different savings’ account. The dullness of his feelings had allowed a moment of brief pride, that was swallowed down by a realization of there being no one else to take pride in it with him.

He pays for his purchases and asks for a bag, and if the cashier raises any eyebrows while scanning his purchases, he hardly notices. He does notice however, hours later when he’s stuck on the toilet, sweating and in pure agony, that the roll of toilet paper is as coarse as it is flimsy. He goes through the entire roll that night.

The bento box, with its innocent seat at the front of the row, was very nearly expired. He starts paying attention to dates and prices from then on. There’s no moment of relief though, as the bubblegum toothpaste creates a series of hard to scrub blobs, and leaves a tingling taste on his tongue that he’s not sure he enjoys. Worst still is that the tissue box lets out a smell of refineries and cheap, damp paper. He tries not to breathe when he uses it. The shampoo, he struck out with, the scent is woodsy, spicy and sharp. It manages to envelope him in odd sensations of warmth, of belonging, and the edge of rippling pleasure. And if he catches himself opening the bottle for no reason other than to inhale that scent? No one is there to notice.

It becomes a bi-monthly staple, if only because he has to rationalize the need for so much in the first place. The bottle isn’t that small either. The tea though is impalpable, and he rotates between the cheaper brands, trying to find the best of the worst. Chemical bitterness makes him wince at the black box’s contents and he decides to stay away from prices that low. He finds passable things to stock the house, tissues and toilet paper and mint toothpaste. He passes the gloves to the section with cotton swabs and sighs at the need to fill his first aid kit with more gauze.

The cracked skin of his hand and fingers is the result of the abrasive dish washing liquid, and knife slips. But the menial labor of washing dishes in silence helps clear his mind, and makes for a good time for chanting practice, so he doesn’t indulge in the dishwasher. Besides, his utility bills comes through, and someone _had_ noticed his affinity for showers.

He’s sorting through his purchases, shelving the cans, stacking the toilet paper, when something rolls to the floor. He picks up the rounded container with its blue lid, and yellowish tinge. The words petroleum jelly come to mind, and he tries not to look accusingly at his elbows for knocking something into the basket this time. It’s on his receipt though, so at least that was a relief. He leaves it on the counter to return later, and winces when he has to wash the tea mugs.

Cooking is still not a skill he has mastered, but with the rice-cooker taking the most challenging aspect of his culinary adventure, eggs become his primary undertaking. As time passes, they become less rubbery, and the variety of vegetables and ingredients he manages to cram with them increase. Ready mixes promise him fluffy pancakes, but even dense, he doesn’t mind them. He tries to ignore the burnt edges and the fact they aren’t round at all, and upends the honey to mask everything in cloying sweetness. He combines it with bitter tea and decides it’s a good functioning system and some things require no adjustment.

The third time he forgets to take the Vaseline back to the store, he decides it might come in handy. He actually does glare at his elbows this time, when his numb fingers have to catch the small tub of Vaseline that almost gets rung up with his new purchases. He uses the one at home, to sooth his fingers, and wonders why he hadn’t bothered with it before. It even makes his _ofuda_ slide better when he throws, and so, gets regulated to the bathroom.

After a while, the combination of it being there, next to the bottle of shampoo is so completely natural, that only the tips of his ears are red when he spies them commiserating, as they were, to remind him of certain things.

His throat dries completely when he’s shopping, and can’t find that brand of shampoo anymore. He tries another store, and another, and a megastore, with scant luck. It’s as if the entire prefecture had decided to no longer stock it. He wonders if he could put in a call to the manufacturer but scowls at himself. He reaches instead for the brand that has taken over that one’s shelves, and when he’s back at the apartment, regulates the Vaseline to the bedroom. He smiles faintly when his water bill is considerably lower the following month.

An expert on noodles is his next title. That he doesn’t need a stove to make the instant noodle is in itself a relief. He adds vegetables to that too, and gets better with the knife. The hamburger steak bento becomes his favorite meal, and he routinely buys it, doesn’t feel remotely guilty for snatching what usually is, the last box.

He begins to understand the fluctuations of economy and struggle of small businesses, when that particular bento box is discontinued, and the tea brand he’d gotten so used to, is replaced by a much more expensive brand. It’s almost on the tip of his tongue to ask the shopkeeper why, when he shakes his head to clear the thoughts away. He can’t be bothering the already busy man over things he can’t exactly control. Surely he’s doing his best for his business too, it had obviously been a popular bento box. He buys the new brand of tea to help the shop, and randomizes his bento picks again.

The tea isn’t terrible, he grudgingly admits, and it becomes a regular purchase, like the Vaseline, and like the Aloe Vera shampoo that gives him a fresh, sweet scent instead of the dark one he’d favored. Things come together, as they do, and he’s satisfied with the stock he piles, and the choices he’s made around the apartment. The feeling of complete independence grows on him, gnaws on him, frightens him a little. He buys the box of Mild Sevens, and isn’t surprised that it never goes out of stock, isn’t discontinued. Between him and Seishirou, he thinks, they’d probably keep the brand well and truly afloat until they die.

***

“No.”

“No?”

“Do you know how hard it is to impose an embargo on a foreign product?”

“It’s not my business to know, it’s why I hired you.”

“There’s a limit to how picky you are, the store is losing business, and as your property and asset manager, I’m putting my foot down. It’s not just yours, it belongs to the Sakurazuka clan and I will act in the best interest of the clan when your choices are causing losses.”

Seishirou looks at the puny man, amusement quickly diminishing. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

His eyes are merely slits when he announces, “close the store.”

He leaves the statement behind in a flurry of petals, that take him to the one tree, leaning longingly towards an apartment that smells occasionally of either egg or noodles, but in the morning, smells distinctively of Seishirou’s favorite brand of tea. His careful touches in curating the materials on which the apartment functions as it does, promise that it’ll be as comfortable as his when he finally visits. Maybe the cigarette brand wasn’t such a deal breaker after all, he just needed to carefully plant the right type of mouthwash in that bi-monthly basket.

He spots the depleted tub of Vaseline, and contemplates how feasible it would be now, to get Subaru to invest in KY instead.

**Author's Note:**

> If there's anything I love more than sad, crazy Subaru, it's endearingly naïve Subaru.


End file.
